


the scars on the boy

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: Peter Jakes has scars, Morse has seen them.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55





	the scars on the boy

**Author's Note:**

> ???? stuff ? i was like hey so jakes probably has scars right? 
> 
> brought about after i thought about lance sweets for the millionth time and got sad. hence the mild bones themed title lol

Morse watches Jakes’ shoulder as he sleeps. The way they rise and fall in time with his ridiculous snores. In the half light of the early morning, Jakes’ is still buried in the sheets, but Morse can see enough. The side of his head, hair mashed against pillows. Long neck, looped in one gold chain Morse discovered he doesn’t take off, so it lies now, warm against his collar. Tall shoulders, stretching into long arms, one of which is tucked under the pillow, the other dangling carelessly off the side of the bed. It’s his shoulder’s Morse can’t stop looking at. 

All of Jakes’ is beautiful, in its way. Handsome and strong, lean and lovely muscles. He works hard to keep his hair looking kept and his figure trim, Peter Jakes is a well put together, good looking man. There’s one thing he can’t disguise though, as much as he might hide it. 

The raised scars on his back, the ones that stretch from shoulder to shoulder, that have aged with him over time. Morse has counted them before, when his mind should have been elsewhere. The first time they’d fucked with Jakes’ on his knees, Morse had seen them properly, and in between heavy hands and dirty moans, he had counted them. 

Sixteen in all, though he suspected they were only the worst. Some ran the line between his shoulder blades, some from hip to neck. There was no pattern to them, just a messy, violent sort of haphazardness. They were the sort of raised scars, numb tissue. Jakes never seemed to feel a thing when Morse’s fingers raked across them, never minded a bit of rough manhandling. 

He never mentioned them either, even when Morse’s hands lay across them. They were nothing particularly sentimental to him, Morse thought. 

Not like his scars. His four pink lines, each shakier than the last; barely there now, faded to nealy-white along the inside of his left arm. His exploding lines at his hip, the one that reminded him of the crack of gunfire whenever the weather turned cold and it hurt to stand. The jagged line in his gut, straighter than it should have been thanks to DeBryn’s careful hand. The one on his knee where he fell from a tree one summer, the chicken pox scar on his chest from when he was seven, the one his mother had tried to fade over the years. Each of his scars held some meaning, some memory. Perhaps that spoke of their personalities too well, Morse always looking back, drawn in by the history and stories of old. Jakes always one foot into tomorrow, running from a past he can’t stand to look at. 

So Morse watches his shoulders. Tracks each rough line with his eyes. He pulls hand up, nestles it in the small of Jakes’ back, where his skin is clear and soft. He shuffles closer, so he can curl up the line of him, press his face to the back of his neck. His lips press soft against skin anywhere they can. Jakes might not think on them anymore, might hide them under shirts and coats, leave them hiding on his back where he cannot see them, but Morse can. He sees them, the way they pull at him. Marks on a puppet where his strings have been cut. 

They’re as much part of Jakes as Morse’s scars are Morse. He will remember them, each and everyone, even if Jakes won’t. 


End file.
